The autumn chill had a bit of steam coming off the water and there was gold along the banks...just the way it had been each of the 42 years he'd come here. Ever changing, yet ever the same, this water called to him as no other. With a sigh and a little smile pulled his old 5 weight friend from a battered tube and rigged up. Fifty yards downstream, at the top of Sal's hole, a sickly salmon rolled.

Sal was long dead, but 35 years ago he had taken a tumble there, filling his waders with...